Masahiro muttered under his breath, his mind still coming to blows with the evening's happenings as he buckled his trousers. "Ridiculous," he grumbled. "All that chaos, for what?" The tone was cutting, but his words were for himself rather than for her.
Matthew wore up to his boxers nonchalantly, stretched his arms, and plopped onto the bed with an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, loosen up, Payne," he teased, reaching for his discarded trousers.
Masahiro, now buttoning his shirt with deliberate frustration, turned his attention to Matthew. "What did you do to, to have two armed thugs on your tail?" His voice was clipped, though the edges of exasperation were softening.
Matthew lolled back lazily, digging into his trouser pocket and pulling out the wallet he'd swiped at the bar. With a triumphant smirk, he held it aloft. "This," he announced, clearly reveling in his victory.
Masahiro froze mid-button, staring at the wallet like it was radioactive. "We got chased be
Masahiro awoke sluggishly, the morning sun creeping through the cracked window to warm him. His body felt oddly comfortable, not just from the sheets beneath him but from the weight resting on his chest. Blinking against the haze of sleep, he looked down, his heart skipping a beat as he realized who it was.Matthew's head was tucked against his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing a rhythm Masahiro had somehow managed to recognize. He couldn't deny the heat building between them, but it wasn't just Matthew's proximity that had him stirring. It was the sudden, undeniable pressure in his own pants.Masahiro froze, his body going rigid as his brain struggled to play catch-up.´Shit, ´ he thought.The groggy noise he made was the first warning Matthew gave before his head shifted slightly. "Morning, Detective," Matthew's voice was low, raspy, still thick with sleep as he raised his head to peer up at Masahiro with half-lidded eyes. "I didn't know you were ´this´ comfortable with me."
Matthew was cradling the cat in his arms, its fur soft against his chest, as he stood by the door, waiting for Masahiro to finish the checkout.His eyes stayed on Masahiro, who was still up front at the desk. He watched the way Masahiro's fingers tapped lightly on the counter, a gesture so light it might have passed anyone else by. But Matthew noticed. Just as he always noticed the tight line of Masahiro's jaw when he was frustrated, or the almost imperceptible lift of his brow when he was amused.He shifted the cat in his arms, nuzzling his chin into its soft fur, and smiled to himself. Masahiro looked so composed, so thoroughly in command, but Matthew knew where the hairline fissures were in that mask. He wasn't so certain why he enjoyed picking at him, but there was something about Masahiro's infrequent moments of fragility that felt like success.It wasn't until Masahiro finally turned toward him, suitcase in tow, that Matthew didn't bother to hide his grin. He raised an eyebrow;
It was the second night at the Tower.Masahiro adjusted his tie, taut against his neck, as he oversaw the crowd, his eyes narrowing to calculated precision. An act, a glance-they were all carefully measured, as though the weight of their investigation weighed upon every step he made.Beside him, Matthew strolled with his usual careless confidence, hands casually tucked into his pockets as though the bar were his personal domain. Masahiro couldn't help the slight clench in his jaw as Matthew's nonchalance grated against his carefully honed focus."Relax, Detective," Matthew teased, flashing that signature smirk, the one that never failed to irk him. "You look like you’re about to shut the place down."Masahiro shot him a quick glance, his tone terse. "Stay focused. We’re not here to make friends."Matthew laughed, the sound light and carefree, but with a glint of something more dangerous beneath it. "I’m focused. Don’t worry about me."Inside, the bar had lost none of its usual chaos.
The music swelled, and Matthew executed a final, deliberate grind, his chest just brushing against Masahiro's as he leaned down, his lips hovering by his ear."Bet you didn't think I'd be this good," Matthew whispered, his tone playful.Masahiro let out a soft huff of amusement, his expression softening just slightly. "Not exactly what I expected from a petty criminal.”Masahiro tried to maintain the professionalism between them, but he could not avoid the feeling that every step Matthew took was meant to drive him crazy. Matthew's hips arced with the rhythm of the song; his body moved in just the right beat, and Masahiro found himself looking how his partner's sensuality swallowed the space around him. The crowd cheered loudly, egging Matthew on, but this time, Matthew was performing for him, Masahiro.With a confident smirk, Matthew sauntered closer to Masahiro, who sat stiffly in the chair, still fighting the attraction he was feeling, despite how much he wanted to remain composed.
Cassidy was as striking as ever: tall, white, handsome, brown hair cascading down his neck. Light green eyes that were always filled with mischief seemed to sparkle, and the tattoos running across his arms and up his neck did nothing to dispel the aura of danger that he always seemed to project.Matthew's hand tightened on his drink; the knuckles white. The presence of Cassidy still lingered in the air, thick and oppressive. He felt branded somehow, as he always did around Cassidy.Matthew's breath caught as the memory surfaced unbidden, the image of him sitting on Cassidy's lap flickering in his mind. They were perched on the edge of a rooftop one evening, the city sprawling beneath them in a sea of lights. Cassidy had his arms around him, pulling him close as they shared a cigar. The air was thick with smoke, the flickering light from the streetlamps below casting shadows over Cassidy's face.“You're mine, you know that, right?" Cassidy's voice had been low, a command wrapped in som
The beer bottles on the table formed a neat little graveyard, each one marking another step into Matthew’s unraveling night. Masahiro was sitting beside him, arms crossed, his piercing gaze locked on the man before him. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t even pretending to enjoy himself. Instead, he was watching Matthew with an expression that hovered somewhere between anger and disdain. “You’re a mess,” Masahiro finally said, his voice clipped. “You lost focus, and now we’re wasting time.”Matthew chuckled, low and humorless, tipping his beer bottle toward Masahiro in mock salute. “Relax, Detective. Cassidy’s spilling his guts tomorrow. Mission accomplished.” “That’s not the point.” Masahiro’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “You’re reckless, and you’re dragging me down with you. You don’t care about anything except whatever feels good in the moment.” Matthew turned in his seat, leaning lazily on the table as he regarded Masahiro with a crooked grin. “You make it sound like such a bad thin
It was a bright and cheerful day, an entirely unwelcome to Matthew, who groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. His skull throbbed with the aftermath of a night he'd sooner forget… too many drinks.He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow and trying to shut out the world."Morning, sunshine," came Masahiro's unmistakable voice, low and sarcastic. Matthew cracked one eye open and turned his head just enough to see Masahiro sitting at the table. He had a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, and a paperback novel in the other. "Ugh, kill me," Matthew muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow.Masahiro didn't even look up from his book. "I would but cleaning up the mess would ruin my morning."Matthew groaned louder, forcing himself into a semi-upright position."You could at least pretend to care about my suffering.”"I do care. I care that you inflicted this on yourself." Masahiro finally looked at him, his face the perfect balance of amusement and exasperatio
Matthew pushed open the door to Whisky and Whimsy; a soft chime of a bell above announced his entrance. It was warm inside, with the mingling scents of coffee and freshly baked pastries, while sunlight streamed in from the large windows to throw golden rays on the rustic wooden furniture.Matthew was the embodiment of cool. Every move he made oozed confidence, though there was a flicker of hesitation in the sharp blue eyes as they scanned the room.Sitting in the corner of the café at a small table, Cassidy lounged as if he owned the place. He had a sly smirk tugged at his lips as he watched Matthew approach."Matthew," Cassidy greeted, rising from his chair.He crossed the space between them in mere strides, moving with fluid grace and silent command. The words died on Matthew's lips as Cassidy reached out, tugging him close."Cass—" Matthew began, but Cassidy hushed him with a kiss, firm and unapologetically possessive.Matthew froze for a split second before melting into it, his mi
Clark’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. He glanced at the screen, Masahiro flashing in bold letters.He sighed, snatching it up. “Masahiro.”“Clark.” Masahiro’s voice was clipped, but not tense. “Good. You’re alive.”“Is that disappointment I hear?” Clark’s tone was effortlessly dry. “Or were you hoping I’d leave you with one less headache?”“We went to your place. It was empty.”“Yes, I’m aware. That’s generally the goal when one isn’t home.”“We heard about the gunfire.” Masahiro ignored the jab. “You alright?”Clark adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate finesse. “Charmed, as always.”“And where are you?”Clark hesitated. He could practically hear the judgment loading.“Adam’s.”A pause. Just long enough to register the surprise without voicing it.“Of course you are.” Masahiro’s voice was too level. “And this decision was made with the full clarity of your legal genius?”“Obviously. Nothing
Smoke still clung to Clark’s jacket like a ghost he couldn’t shake. He’d barely had time to process the ambush—just flashes of gunfire, Adam shoving him down, the brutal jolt of the car door slamming shut. Now they were speeding down a back road, the city lights thinning behind them.Clark stared out the window, heart still jackhammering under his ribs. Asphalt blurred under the tires. The direction felt wrong.“This isn’t the hotel district,” he said, adjusting his glasses with clipped precision. “Where are we going?”Adam didn’t look at him. His grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched. “My place.”Clark blinked. “Your what?”“My place,” Adam repeated. “We’re layin’ low.”Clark snapped his head toward him. “Since when is your house suddenly the panic room? Take me to a hotel.”Adam exhaled, sharp and irritated. “A hotel ain’t safe.”“And your place is?”“Yeah.”Clark scoffed. “That a joke? What’s next, you gonna tuck me in with a loaded Glo
The door clicked shut behind them, soft but final.Clark was the first to move, striding across the room and dropping his file folder onto the table like it had offended him. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t loosen his tie. Just leaned forward, both palms on the table, head low.The air felt like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for hours.Masahiro stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. His coat was still buttoned, not a hair out of place, voice low and clipped.“You did well,” he said.Clark didn’t lift his head. “They were the ones who did well.”“Don’t be modest. You controlled the tempo from the moment you stood up,” Masahiro added, voice firm. “Even she couldn’t shake the narrative.”Clark finally straightened. Adjusted his glasses. “She’ll try harder on monday.”“And you’ll handle it,” Masahiro replied simply. “You’re still one of the best in Middlesbrough, whether you’re spiraling or not.”From the corner,
The courtroom resumed with the same weight it had carried before the recess—but now the air felt thicker. Tighter. Every word from the judge landed heavier than before.“All rise,” the bailiff intoned.Clark didn’t bother looking at the prosecutor. He didn’t need to.He had work to do.Witness One: ArthurArthur sat rigid in the stand, hands folded tightly iin his lap. He wore a pale blue shirt that made him look even younger than usual, and his eyes kept flicking toward Cassidy—never quite meeting his gaze.Clark approached slowly, with no notes in hand. He didn’t need them.“State your name for the record.”“Arthur Cooper.”“Arthur, can you tell the court how you came to know the defendant?”Arthur hesitated. “He… he saved me.”Soft murmurs rippled through the gallery.Clark’s tone didn’t change. “Saved you from what?”“I was taken,” Arthur said, voice cracking only once. “Held in a warehouse with other victims. I don’t know how long. We were moved often. Kept in darkness.”“Did Ca
The courtroom was a theater, and Clark knew it.Not the overblown, high-drama kind. Not screaming matches or grandstanding.This was colder.Sharper.This was where reputation meant leverage. Where presence was its own kind of weapon. And today, Clark stood center stage with every light on him.He adjusted his cuffs with slow precision, stepped into place before the jury, and met each face without flinching.“Good morning,” he began. Calm. Even. Clean.“This trial will present you with blood, with violence, and with the kind of fear most people are lucky to never know.”The jurors stilled.“You will hear about what Cassidy did. About what Cassidy stopped. And about the lines he crossed to do it.”He let the silence land.“I will not stand here and pretend he’s a saint. That’s not what this is.”Eyes narrowed. Attention sharpened.“But you’ll learn—very quickly—that th
Clark didn’t say a word when they stepped into the hotel room.Bag hit the floor with a heavy thud. He moved straight to the minibar like he had one purpose: drown something before it spoke.Adam closed the door behind them with his boot, leaned against it, arms crossed.“Look at you,” Adam muttered. “Straight to the bottle like it’s fuckin’ therapy.”Clark ignored him. Yanked open the minibar, pulled out a half-decent bottle of Glenfiddich, and poured it like his hands weren’t already shaking.Adam pushed off the door, slow. “No ‘thanks for gettin’ me outta that rat trap’? Not even a ‘hey, nice save, criminal scum’?”Clark took a sip, didn’t flinch at the burn. “If I wanted mouth, I’d have stayed in the blackout.”Adam snorted, tossing his jacket over the couch. “You were in the blackout. Power dead. Brain fried. Pride? Fucked.”Clark glanced over the rim of his glass. “You enjoying this?”Adam dropped
Clark stirred, his consciousness dragging itself from the depths of a splitting headache. The weight of exhaustion clung to his body, limbs heavy against the cool sheets. His mouth was dry, tasting faintly of whiskey and regret.`What the hell happened last night?’He cracked his eyes open, blinking against the soft light filtering through the sheer curtains. The unfamiliar ceiling above him sent a jolt of confusion through his groggy mind. His brain lagged behind as he tried to piece things together.Hotel. Right.He had asked to come here.His body ached in that overindulged way, a reminder of too much alcohol and not enough food. Clark let out a slow exhale, dragging a hand over his face. His skin was warm, his head pounding, his stomach flipping in protest at the mere thought of movement.And then he saw Adam.The large figure was stretched out on the other bed, still asleep. His breathing was deep and steady, arms crossed over his chest as if even un
The drive back was quiet.Clark had stopped fussing, his usual sharp tongue dulled by exhaustion. He slumped in the passenger seat, head against the window, fingers idly tapping his knee in a steady rhythm—one-two-three, one-two-three. Adam had seen him do it before. A lawyer’s habit. A man counting the seconds, keeping himself anchored.Adam didn’t speak. Just drove.When they reached Clark’s building, Adam pulled into a stop, cut the engine, and turned toward him."Home, sweet home," he muttered.Clark sighed but didn’t argue. He pushed the door open, stepping out with slow, steady movements, like the world was heavier tonight.Adam followed.Clark didn’t wait. He walked ahead, heading toward the stairs without hesitation. Of course.Adam let out a breath, shaking his head before following.Floor after floor.Clark kept pace. Silent. Focused. Maybe even a little too focused.By the time they reached his door, Adam was ready to dump his a
The meal was decent.Clark had barely tasted it, too busy keeping his posture sharp, his expression unreadable. Adam, on the other hand, ate like a man who didn’t give a shit about the room full of rich people side-eyeing them.Clark had expected whispers, lingering stares—but the real fun started when Nicholas Sinclair, Emery’s fiancé, finally made his way over."Clark," Nicholas greeted smoothly, wine glass in hand, a carefully measured smile tugging at his lips. "I’m so glad you could make it."Clark forced a polite smirk, barely looking up from his plate. `Fuck off, Nicholas.’Adam, still chewing, barely glanced at the man."Nicholas." Clark set his glass down. "Congratulations."Nicholas gave a gracious chuckle, full of fake modesty. "Oh, thank you, really. It’s a new chapter, isn’t it?"Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Nicholas was gloating.And then—he turned to Adam.Clark tensed."I don’t believe we’ve met," Nicholas said